Prayers (previously known as Every Night)
by The Raisin Girl
Summary: "I prayed to you, Cas! Every night!" (Spoilers through 8x02. Rated T for language.)
1. Every Night

"Cas?" Dean feels like an idiot. He's not even sure Cas can hear him anymore. He keeps going anyway. "Cas, I dunno if you can hear me or not, but just in case you can…I'm coming for ya, okay? I don't know where you ran off to, but I'm looking for you and I'm gonna find you, and when I do…" He stops, swallows around the lump in his throat that makes him feel like he's being choked. "When I do, we're gonna find a way to go home."

He waits, but there's no rustle of wings, no gravelly voice saying hello. He closes his eyes and breathes through the panic, pushes down the fear and the loneliness and the constant, aching worry that Cas doesn't answer him because Cas _can't_ answer him anymore. He's never been much for blind faith, but he has to believe his friend is alive if he wants to keep himself from going crazy.

"I promise, Cas," he whispers into the darkness pressing against his eyelids. "I'll find a way to take us home."

* * *

"You know, I'm still kinda mad at you." He says it so casually, like it really isn't a big deal. "I mean, I _want_ to still be mad at you. You lied to me, you hurt Sam, you tried to become God. Man, the shit you pulled nearly ended the world. Again." He huffs a laugh that ends on a rueful sigh, scrubbing a hand over eyes that remain dry no matter how much they sting and burn hot with unshed tears.

"But you know…it's not like you're the first of us to screw that particular pooch. And all I can think about is you trying to hold everything together by yourself. Trying to keep your brothers from killing each other and restarting the Apocalypse. Watching your family die. Hey,_ I_ may think they're giant dicks with wings, but they're still your family, and no matter what stupid shit they pull, I know you still love 'em."

He's quiet for a moment. He hasn't run out of things to say; far from it. But he keeps hoping that in the silence he'll hear the sound of angel wings. He doesn't.

"Aw, Cas," he says finally. "I'm not still mad, not really. You fixed Sammy…and I know what that cost you, I do. I guess that's why you didn't tell me you were gonna do it. I bet you knew I'd run Sam's clock down to the last second lookin' for another way, and then you'd just have to do it anyway…and who knows what shape you'da been in then. Maybe Kevin's tablet thing wouldn't have woken you up."

He sighs again.

"I guess that's what I do…I'm so desperate to hold everything together, and in the end I just run out of time. I watch someone I was supposed to protect make the sacrifice play. I don't save anybody." He stops again, and this time it's not to listen for Cas's wings.

"You know…the funny thing…I keep thinkin' about it…if I'd just found another way. If I'd held on in Hell, if I hadn't broke and started this whole thing in the first place…Sammy would never've had all those memories of Hell to begin with. Fuck, if I'd just gone ahead and died like I was supposed to the first time around, maybe I'd be in Heaven. Maybe my dad never woulda gone to Hell. Maybe Sammy wouldn't have either."

A thought strikes him in the darkness, and he has to chuckle.

"'Course, most of your dickhead brothers would say it was always gonna happen like this, one way or another. Destiny, right?" He sighs.

"G'night, Cas."

* * *

"Castiel," Dean gasps out through gritted teeth, voice laced with pain. He's got both hands pressed to his stomach to stop the blood, but if the way his vision's blurring in and out is any indication, he's probably not doing a very good job. Already he feels cold, numb below the waist and dizzy beyond belief. All he really wants is to close his eyes and zone out for a minute, just _rest_. He fights through the drowsiness to call for his friend one more time.

"Cas…man, if you were ever gonna…put in a guest appearance…now…now would be good."

Dean does close his eyes then, lets himself sink into a semi-oblivion that's colored with regret. He didn't keep his promises; he never found Cas, and he's never going to get them both home, now. He wonders if he can even die here, or if he'll wake up regenerated like he used to do in Hell. He wonders if his soul can make it out once his body's been drained of life.

"Cas—" he breathes, and then he's spiraling. It's slow, oddly protracted, and Dean thinks idly that it doesn't usually take him this long to die. He thinks he hears birds, but there are no birds in Purgatory, and he thinks he feels warmth. Something in this darkness makes him smile in recognition and relief. A second before he completely loses consciousness Dean knows he's really dead, because abruptly, there's no more pain.

* * *

He wakes up gradually, slumped against the same tree and feeling well-rested for the first time since further back than he can remember. There's not even a crick in his neck. He looks down at himself to check his wound, and freezes.

His clothes are completely free of blood and dirt. The material of his t-shirt is unbroken, and when he lifts it up there isn't even a scar. The cuts and scrapes that were on his hands are gone, and when he tries to stand he realized he can feel his legs just fine. What he doesn't feel is the broken ankle that slowed him down and got him into that whole mess in the first place. Rolling up his pants leg, he sees that the mottled purple skin and swollen flesh is healed completely. Dean snaps to attention, peering alertly around him, searching the surrounding trees for a flash of pale color.

"Cas?" He calls the name quietly, not wanting to attract anything other than the angel himself. Because it has to be Cas, it _has_ to be. Dean's never seen anything else put him back together quite like this.

"Cas!" He calls again, louder this time. "C'mon, man…you gonna just hit it and quit it, don't even stick around to say hi?"

There's no response, and Dean's shoulders sag a little where he stands, but his jaw is set. Determined.

"Fine, you loony bastard," he growls, annoyed. "You wanna play hide and seek? I'll play. I'm gonna find your ass, and then I'm gonna kick it. And then I'm gonna drag it home."

* * *

"Y'know, I've been thinkin'," Dean says to empty air, although he no longer believes for a second that no one is listening. "All this time I've been assuming you were lost, or maybe you couldn't hear me…but now I think maybe you don't wanna be found."

He waits, but there's nothing. He sighs.

"I guess I'd understand that," he says softly. "All that time I spent blaming you for the stupid things you did, but I never stopped to take stock of my own sins. And now don't get me wrong…you did pull some stupid shit. But…then you tried to clean it up. You did your best. You tried to tell me you were sorry."

Dean doesn't know when he turned into such a crier, but he's wiping away tears now. If there's one thing about this place he doesn't hate, it's the way all the unimportant bullshit just disappears. He's not afraid to cry; hell, most of the time he's too afraid not to. Never mind that most of the time he has to go from paralyzed with terror to hacking up some evil sonofabitch in point-zero-five seconds. Dean now has better things to spend his energy on than suppressing his emotions when there's no one there to see. Like saying his prayers.

"I never told you how sorry I was, Cas," he chokes finally. "And man, I am. I am so fucking sorry, I don't even…you needed me. You _needed_ me and you didn't know you could come to me for help, and who's fucking fault was that? I saw how tired you were, how upset, how desperate. But I was so used to you being the one who could just…reach out a hand and fix anything. And I kept telling myself we had bigger problems down here than what a bunch of whiny dick angels were up to. I didn't even stop to think that every time I had a problem with _my_ brother, you were right there to help me even if it meant going against everything you'd believed in for fucking centuries."

Dean has to stop and breathe for a moment, but it feels like a lance through his heart when he does. It's like someone has his chest in a vice grip, and he spends a few minutes gasping before he manages to catch his breath and go on.

"Whatever else you did afterward, that part's on me. You needed me and I wasn't there, so you did the best you could with all you thought you had, and it blew up. And I'm sorry. Cas, I'm so fucking sorry. Please…Cas, please, I have to find you. Don't keep runnin' from me, man. I just wanna get us outta here, okay? I just wanna go home. Maybe the two of us can find a way."

* * *

It takes weeks, but eventually Dean runs out of things to say. He doesn't stop praying, though, even if it's only a sentence. Sometimes he tells Cas stories about what Sam was like as a kid. Mostly he recounts whatever monsters he found and killed that day. He doesn't tell Cas he's questioning every single one of them to try and find out where he's hiding, just in case Cas really doesn't want Dean to find him.

He's determined to see the angel again, to know for certain he's okay, to say he's sorry and ask him to come home with him to his face. Even if he has no idea how they can get home, or whether it's even possible.

Then there's Benny, and a ray of hope, and Dean looks for Castiel harder than ever. Because there might really be a way out, and no matter what Benny's misgivings are, Dean's not leaving without his angel.

* * *

"Y'know…I never told you this, but you weren't just a hammer to me, either," Dean murmurs at the sky one night, after he and Benny have made camp and he's fairly sure the other man's already asleep. Funny thing about Purgatory, vampires sleep at night just like everybody else.

"I know we called you for help a lot, whenever we ran up against something that research and the right weapon couldn't fix…which was all the damn time. But that's not all you were to us…just in case that's what you thought. You're like family to me, Cas. Your last name might as well be Winchester as far as I'm concerned. I'd do anything for you, you know that? And I'm not gonna stop looking for you, not ever."

* * *

Castiel is crouched in the grass when it starts again, and he has never understood the human expression "mixed feelings" as well as he does whenever Dean prays to him. He wishes with every fiber of his being that the man would just give up on him, just _stop_, but he cherishes each prayer with a mingled sense of joy and relief, because they mean Dean's alive, he's okay. They mean he still cares.

Either that, or Castiel is crazier than he thought.

But no, he reminds himself, he answered one, and it was really Dean. He was really there, right there, flesh and blood—far too much blood—and Castiel healed him.

_It could have all been a dream, _a vicious little voice whispers in the back of his mind_. You wanted to see him so badly that you dreamed you did. You even dreamed you were needed. Now you're dreaming that he misses you, that he's out there somewhere trying to find you. Dean Winchester has been dead for weeks._

No.

Castiel would know if Dean were dead. He doesn't know how, but he's sure. He would know.

Only now the man has started praying to him during the_ day_, and Castiel can't take it. Every word sears through him like a hot knife, and everything he is longs to fly to wherever Dean is and comfort him, silence his guilt and his worry and take away his pain, reassure him and help him find them a way home. He resists each night, but just barely. He knows that finding Dean will only ensure that they both die faster.

Still, he's not sure that he'll be able to resist if Dean starts praying to him every day, too.

Suddenly, Castiel tenses. There are footsteps approaching through the leaves. Whatever it is, it made no attempt to sneak up on him. Which means it's probably very dangerous. Castiel tears himself away from the sound of Dean's voice still echoing in the air and stands, turns to see…

…Dean.

* * *

**Author's Note**: Inspired by the fanart that's in the cover picture done by spookifer on tumblr, as well as the tags added to it.


	2. And Every Night After

"Cas," his voice cracks on the name, but he clears his throat and keeps going, even if he is just talking to his ceiling. On the off chance he's not just talking to his ceiling.

"You sonofabitch, how could you let go? Why didn't you just hold on? We were almost out, Cas. We were almost home."

* * *

"You're always so damn self-sacrificing. What about you, though, huh? What about what's good for you, what about the people that love you and don't want to lose you? Didya ever think of them?"

Dean rolls over onto his side and squeezes his eyes shut. There are no tears, just the scratchy, burning sensation he was always used to before.

"Dammit, Cas," he whispers. "I miss you, man."

* * *

Dean wakes up gasping, choking, fighting his way out of the covers and looking around the dark, empty room with wild eyes. It's just a hotel room. He's alone. He's glad, not for the first time, that he and Sam get separate rooms.

Stumbling a little, he makes his way to the bathroom, fumbling for the light and gripping the counter to remain upright as he stares, blinking, at his own reflection. He knows it was just a dream, but God, it had felt so real.

He lets go, sinks to the bathroom floor, curling against the tiles like a wounded animal. He mouths words into the cold linoleum, voice too choked with unshed tears to give make a sound.

"I let go, Cas. I was the one who let go, not you. God, I'm so sorry. I never wanted to leave you there. I didn't mean to. Please, you gotta know that, Cas, if you're still out there somewhere. You gotta know I would never let go on purpose."

Dean falls asleep curled up on the floor. This time, he doesn't dream.

* * *

Sometimes Dean prays to Cas during the day, too. Mostly in his head. It's just a habit he never quite got rid of, something he doesn't know how to stop doing. A part of him thinks that as long as he prays, Cas will still hear him. To stop would be like admitting that his friend is beyond his reach.

"Cas," he says one night, voice strong and determined, without a trace of tears. "I'm gonna find a way to get you out, you hear me? You hang on, you stubborn little bastard. I'm gonna find a way to get you out."

* * *

In the middle of a dark and endless forest, an angel rests with his back against a gnarled tree, and listens, and smiles.

He's tired. He's afraid and he's alone, and he doesn't know if what Dean promises is possible. He doesn't even know if the voice he hears is real, or just something concocted by his shattered mind, to torture him.

But he has faith.

* * *

**Author's Note:** I had no intention to continue this. But things happen.


	3. Every Night, Forever

It's Castiel's first night back on Earth, and he's reveling in running water, real soap, being safe enough to stay in one place for longer than three minutes, when he hears it.

_Castiel. Cas._ It's Dean's voice in his head, the tenor of which he knows better than his own by now. It feels tired, but relieved, glad. Castiel understands.

_I told you I'd get us home,_ he thinks smugly, and Castiel rolls his eyes, opting to ignore Dean and pay attention to his shower if the man is going to be obnoxious. But Dean is still praying, and Castiel is still angel enough that he feels the need to listen.

_There were some days I didn't think we'd make it,_ he confesses, the thought small and carrying an echo of his fear of failure with it. _Even when I found a way to get back in, I didn't know if I'd be able to find you and get you out. I didn't even know if you'd…still be there._

It amazes Castiel how human beings can be so evasive even in their own minds. Dean was afraid he'd break into Purgatory only to find that he, Castiel, was already dead. But he doesn't pray those words, and by now Castiel has lived among humans long enough to understand why. Death is a constant threat to human beings, and it carries with it the added fear, at least for Dean, of knowing exactly what's waiting after. Castiel will take the oblivion that awaits him, should he ever die, over the way he knows Dean feels about spending eternity alone in Heaven.

_I can't tell you how good it was to see you again,_ Dean prays softly. _Man, you looked rough._ The thought carries a chuckle with it, and Castiel has to huff a little laugh himself. Leave it to Dean to get right to the heart of the matter.

_I missed you, Cas. So much. If you ever tell Sam I'll deny the crap out of it, but I did_. Another ripple of laughter down the line, followed by something that feels like a sigh. _Honestly, man, I kinda don't want to let you out of my sight right now._

Castiel finishes his shower quickly, towels off, and slips into the sweatpants and t-shirt that Dean left folded on the edge of the sink for him. He slips out of the bathroom as quietly as possible and makes a beeline for Dean's bed, instead of his own. He climbs in without preamble, fitting his body in the space beside Dean's and turning to stare through the darkness at a pair of wide, confused green eyes set in a flustered face.

"Cas? What—"

"Perhaps," Castiel says softly, although there's no reason to whisper; Sam's in the room next door. "I also don't want to let you out of my sight."

Dean sighs and Castiel feels the tension drain out of him with that breath. It doesn't return when he slides closer, curling himself into Dean's chest and worming a cold foot between Dean's bare calves. Dean yelps at the cold and then Castiel can feel him glaring through the dark, and he can't help but laugh.

"You're a dick," Dean says without heat. "A dick with icicle feat. C'mere." And he wraps warm arms around Castiel's shoulders, pulls him in closer and rests his forehead against Castiel's hair, breathing him in and holding him tight.

_Just so you know,_ Dean prays, _you are not allowed to use my legs as a foot warmer every night._

Castiel chuckles.

"We shall see," he mumbles into Dean's chest, and then they sleep.

* * *

_Now I lay me down to sleep, I pray to Castiel to get the fuck over here and snuggle me._

There are things Dean would rather die than say aloud, but that's the beauty of prayer, he's discovered: they don't have to be out loud at all, so no one ever has to know but him and Cas.

Of course, Cas is developing a bitchface almost as obnoxious as Sam's, so maybe Dean should rethink the expediency of this arrangement.

"Dean," he says grumpily, "I am trying to read."

_You like your book more than you like me?_ Dean pouts silently, and Castiel sighs and puts his book aside. He stands and crosses the room in a few measured steps, staring impassively down at Dean with his arms at his sides. Dean is struck anew by how graceful he seems without that bulky trench coat, even when he's motionless.

"My book is less demanding," Castiel says noncommittally. Dean just grins up at him, guileless and sweet and utterly bullshit, because what Castiel hears is _Yeah, but unlike your book I give as good as I get._

Castiel is on him then, clinging with his legs and mapping with his hands, undressing him methodically as he growls in Dean's ear, voice low with an odd mixture of lust and exasperation.

"I will never understand how you manage to make even prayer a profane act, Dean." The words vibrate against Dean's skin and make him shiver, full-bodied. He pulls back and relishes the feeling of Castiel's hands carding through his hair as he sends his answer: _At least it's a gentle sin?_

Castiel's hands freeze.

"Dean…when did you read Shakespeare?" Dean chuckles and rolls his eyes.

"Dude…I went to high school like everybody. More of 'em than most people, but still…I've read a few books, I'm not an idiot."

"Oh," Castiel says softly, "I've never thought you were unintelligent. Just less informed on literature, and less interested."

_When do I get to smooth that rough touch with a tender kiss?_ Dean prays, waggling his eyebrows at the angel wrapped around him. Said angel tries to groan, but it's half fondness and at least forty percent laughter, so the effect is lost.

"I sincerely hope we are not Romeo and Julie—mmph." Castiel's words are cut off by Dean's mouth sealing itself against his, and he gives off teasing Dean for the moment in favor of something he enjoys much more.

* * *

"Guys, you need to stop."

Castiel and Dean look at Sam with almost identical expressions of confusion on their faces, and he groans.

"Seriously, stop! This mind meld thing you've got going on is seriously starting to freak me the hell out."

_Wuh-oh,_ Dean's thought flashes into Cas's mind, gleeful and teasing_. Sounds like Sammy's still got some residual jealousy when it comes to our profound bond, Cas._

"Residual?" Cas raises an eyebrow. Dean smirks. Sam just groans again.

"Oh my GOD. You're still doing it!"

Dean can only shrug, unconcerned, but Castiel is suddenly curious.

"Sam…I wonder. I don't read Dean's mind, you understand. I get the thoughts he sends to me. I assumed they were prayers, but you seem to think it has something specifically to do with Dean. Could you try to send me a thought?"

Sam gives him an incredulous look.

"You're kidding, right? I've been screaming at you in my head all day to shut your freaking boyfriend up before I drown him in his own coffee."

Dean chokes a little at the word "boyfriend," and Sam gives him a look that can only be described as vindicated.

"Karma," he says tersely.

"You're…Karma," Dean returns, still looking thrown. Sam and Cas roll their eyes almost in unison before Sam goes back to his laptop, muttering something about stupid angels and their taboo relationships with freaky fringe benefits, emphasis on the fringe. Castiel turns to Dean, looking pensive and slightly troubled.

_Dude…you okay?_

Castiel nods. Then Dean feels a sudden flash of something, like a split-second headache. It's gone before he can even register it, but something must have shown on his face, because Castiel's eyebrows drawing together, and his eyes look suddenly…hopeful?

"Dean?"

"What…" He stops, glances at Sam, who's still pointedly ignoring them.

_What _was_ that, Cas?_

"That was…hm." He screws his face up in concentration.

Suddenly there's a voice in Dean's head, still and resonant, and it calms him to his core just to hear it.

_That was me trying to talk to you the way you always talk to me._

Dean just stares at Cas across the table, eyes wide.

_Holy crap._

* * *

They do research, and Sam makes cracks about their "love connection," as he likes to call it. Castiel worries that this is some side effect, an omen or portent or part of some long-forgotten prophecy, because angels and humans simply _do not_ form mental links like this.

_Yeah, well…we do a lot of things angels and humans aren't supposed to together,_ Dean thinks at him, and Castiel wishes Dean could be as stoic about his thoughts as he is about actually voicing his emotions, because the leering quality of that comment makes him blush scarlet.

_Please try to think with your upstairs brain, Dean, _he thinks back severely. He used to be confused when Sam would chastise Dean for thinking with the wrong brain, because everything he knew about human physiology said they only possessed one center of cognition. He is supremely thankful to the creator of Google, because he doesn't want to contemplate the face Dean would have made if he'd asked what a "downstairs brain" was.

For his part, Dean seems wholly unconcerned, and it bothers Castiel to no end. He quickly discovers that the only thing harder than getting Dean to talk when he doesn't want to is getting him to pray—they still call it that, whatever it actually is—when he doesn't want to.

_Dean, please…you don't have to talk to Sam about this, because he _is _being rather insufferable, but I'm worried and this concerns me too…and you've always been able to talk to me._

_Yeah, well,_ Dean thinks petulantly. _You were never so freakin' pushy about it before now._

_Dean…_ he doesn't mean for that thought to feel quite so wounded, but he sees Dean wince across the room before turning to give him an apologetic look.

_Cas…dammit…okay._ He jerks his head towards the motel room door. _Let's…go talk._ Sam is absorbed in some ancient book of angel lore on the other side of the room, pointedly ignoring the silent exchange as best he can, but Dean still feels eavesdropped on and it's making him testy. Castiel follows him willingly enough, and when they're seated side by side in the Impala, Castiel angles his body to the left and looks expectant. Dean sighs.

"First of all, man? I miss your voice. We should talk out loud more often."

"Oh." Clearly, that's not something Castiel expected him to say.

"Secondly, I…okay, I know it's weird, and I know it doesn't jive with anything we know about people or angels, but…"

"But?" Castiel encourages, when Dean doesn't go on after a full minute. Dean sighs again and turns in his seat, leaning in close so their shoulders are almost touching, head bent to stare at where their fingers are just millimeters apart on the seat.

"I like being able to talk to each other the way we do, okay? I…" he lapses into prayer and the words start pouring into Castiel's head, unfettered.

_I like being connected to you like this. I like being able to tell you everything, all the stuff I never talk about. I like knowing no matter where we are, no matter how far apart we are, that we can still reach each other. I mean, fucking hell Cas, you were in another dimension, and you could still hear me! I wish to God I could've heard you that whole time, at least to know for sure that you...that you weren't…_

_Shhhh._ Castiel nudges reassurance into Dean's mind, and it mirrors the arms that wrap around him, the hands that twine in his hair and brush over his forehead. Dean goes willingly into the embrace, despite the fact they're in a parked car where anyone could walk by and see.

_I understand,_ he thinks at Dean, pressing lips to his hair. _I enjoy being connected to you this way. I would not want to lose it._

_So let's not lose it,_ Dean thinks, an edge of hopeful wheedling to his tone. Castiel smiles, laughs into his hair.

_I promise that no matter what happens, you won't lose me._

* * *

Sometimes, having someone who can talk to him without speaking and hear his thoughts in return is really freaking annoying.

Most of the time, though, it comes in handy. In fact, Dean can think of more than one occasion when a hunt might've gone south if he hadn't been able to talk to Cas in his head.

Once or twice it almost got them both killed, because when Castiel goes suddenly, deathly silent in the middle of a sentence how is Dean _not_ going to drop everything and run in, half-crazed and distracted with worry, to rescue him?

But they survived that, and things are settling. After months of searching they've found no prophecy and encountered nothing more dire than the usual…their usual circa 2005 or 2006, mind you. Slash and burns, Crowley, monsters. Life is getting back to the Winchester version of normal, except now Dean's not alone in his head all the time.

Eventually Sam starts to relax, although he never gets tired of making jokes about his brand new gay brother. Dean was ruffled by that at first, stomping and snorting like an angry bull with no effect whatsoever, but finally Castiel pointed out that Sam just likes having something on Dean after years of being the butt of jokes about his hair and eating habits. Lately Dean uses a slightly different tactic to get Sam to shut the hell up.

"Jesus, Cas, how do you concentrate with that in your head all the time? I can barely think with all these love vibrations in the room." They're supposed to be researching their latest case, but Dean's been too busy making goo-goo eyes at Cas all afternoon, and it's finally gotten on Sam's last nerve. Unfortunately Dean seems unfazed by Sam's outburst for a change.

"Sorry, Sammy," he says, face a picture of remorse. "It's just…sometimes when Cas here is all unbuttoned and casual and deep in thought like that I can't control my thoughts too well, y'know?"

"Dean—" Cas starts to scold him for teasing his brother and then stops abruptly as a wave of emotions and images sweeps over him, so potent and real that he has to bite back a groan. The sheer amount of _lust _in Dean's thoughts almost bowls him over, and he puts a hand up to loosen his collar in a vain attempt to relieve the sudden flash of heat washing over his body. He shoots a glare at Dean, who's grinning at him like the cat that caught the canary.

"Y'alright there, Cas?"

"Dean…" Cas chokes out, voice low and husky, and Sam looks between his smirking brother and the blushing angel for about ten seconds before he catches on, and his face screws up in mortified disgust.

"Oh, man…gross! Get a room."

"Hey," Dean says with an evil grin. "You brought it up."

Of course, they don't get any more work done that day, because Castiel suddenly feels the need to grant Sam's request by dragging Dean into the other room and locking the door.

* * *

As it turns out, not all of Dean's prayers are profane.

They're tangled in skin-warm sheets, legs entwined below and Castiel's head on Dean's chest, listening to the steady, comforting thump of his heartbeat, when something small and soft whispers its way into his brain.

_I love you._

"Dean?" Castiel tries to raise his head to see Dean's face, but arms tighten around him and hold him there. He hears Dean's heart quicken its beating.

_I'm not the guy who just comes out and professes things and I know you know me pretty well, but…I wanted to make sure you know. I do. I love you._

It's stronger this time, less timid, and Castiel grips that thought with every ounce of mental power he has, feels it out and savors the emotions that come with it, most of them familiar but softer around the edges, and a few of them brand-new and fragile, more fragile than anything he would have expected to hear from Dean in a lifetime.

He sighs contentedly into Dean's chest, bringing one arm up to let his fingers card into the short hair at the back of his head. On an impulse he slides his fingers up to cover the place on Dean's arm where his mark used to stand out, a bright, angry red, and grips as tight as he dares. He sends Dean his own thought then.

Castiel knows about shyness, uncertainty, and vulnerability, but if there was anything timid left in him it was burned and beaten out of him in Purgatory, and so the emotions that hit Dean are not small, and they aren't soft or quiet.

Dean gasps, his mind suddenly filled with an overwhelming cacophony of more than he thought a single entity could feel. He knows the _awe _of Castiel's first moment standing before him, the _horror_ of doubts creeping in at the edges of a certainty that's as old as the Earth or older, the _ache_ of wanting sharpened to a knife's edge of need because the person feeling it has never wanted anything before, the serenity of purpose that comes with making a first decision and knowing its right, the unadulterated agony of realizing, too late, that the last decision you made was wrong. Then there's a long, yawning stretch that's a cross between the sobbing of a terrified child and a dying man screaming _no_, and it's _emptiness_, it's _loss_, it's the most horrible thing Dean's ever felt in his life, and he knows there are tears streaming down his face in the same detached way he knows that these are all the things Castiel has ever felt for him, or for lack of him.

Suddenly and unexpectedly, the never-ending, helpless scream quiets, and in steals something brand-new and shivering, glass-thin but growing stronger by the minute. Dean has a second to kid himself that it's simple hope or happiness before it explodes over him, and it's _love_, it's blinding, limitless, fill-you-to-the-brim-and-drown-you-in-it love, and there's happiness and hope in it but they're only a part, afloat in a sea that could put out the sun and have room to spare, warm, liquid clarity, the kind of love that comes from a creature never built for emotions who stumbled onto them and doesn't know yet how to lock them away or tamp them down, how to keep them at a distance so they don't sting quite so sharply.

Dean is shaking with the force of what Castiel feels for him, his arms and legs wrapped around his lover so tight it ought to hurt, but it doesn't, and Dean hopes Castiel never learns how to toss his emotions to the wayside the way humans have evolved to do. He regrets, as bitterly as he's ever regretted anything, that he's one such evolved human, because in return for this, this boundless luminescent _thing_ Castiel feels for him, he can only give a quiet echo of what he knows the angel deserves.

_Shhh, _Castiel tells him, and he realizes he's been sending his reactions back to Castiel. _Don't be ridiculous, Dean._ The thought is fond and sweet, feels like a cool hand on his forehead, and he sinks into it, cocoons himself in it until he feels as safe as he's ever going to feel, and he says it again, puts as much of himself as he can into it this time, all the intensity and the fear-lust-joy and the constant ache of protective worry that makes him want to never let Castiel leave his side. It's not enough, but he tries.

_I love you. I love you, I love you, I love you I love you I love you loveyouloveyouloveyou—_

Castiel is soothing him again, shushing him and holding him, body and mind and soul. _I know, Dean, I know. It's okay. I don't doubt you. I know._

They fall asleep like that, sealed together with their thoughts playing in each other's heads on a loop.

When Dean wakes, the first thing he hears is Castiel's voice.

"Dean," he asks softly, voice a little muffled by the skin of Dean's chest, "Did you ever read the Bible as a child?" Dean snorts.

"Not really. Wasn't good any good for researching demons, and it wasn't like we were brought up in church. Why? Thought you said the Bible gets tons of stuff wrong."

"It does," Castiel accedes, "But there's wisdom to be had there, all the same. Particularly in the teachings of Jesus."

"Yeah, about that. Was he really some crazy powerful prophet or Son of God or whatever?" Castiel extracts himself from Dean's arms sufficiently to look at him then, and there's a playful glint in his eyes when he answers, just the barest hint of an upward curve on his lips.

"Ah. I believe the saying is, 'that would be telling.'"

Dean rolls his eyes and crushes Castiel to him again, eliciting a soft _oomph_ from the angel and counting it a small victory.

"Cryptic bastard. Anyway…what brought this on?"

"There's a story," Castiel says, settling back into Dean's arms more comfortably and resting his cheek on the warm expanse of skin just below Dean's anti-possession tattoo. "I wondered if you had heard it."

"What story?" Dean asks, voice soft and a little husky with sleep and something else, fingers playing idly with strands of Castiel's dark hair.

"One day as Jesus was preaching in the temple, and while he was being questioned by those in the church who wanted to discredit him, he saw people coming in to give offerings to the temple treasury. He watched as rich men and women gave extravagant offerings, but it was the contribution of two mites—pennies, I suppose would be the modern-day equivalent—from an impoverished widow that caught his attention. 'Truly I say unto you,' he said, 'that this poor widow has put in more than all.'"

"Okay," Dean interrupts. "First of all, 'truly I say unto you?' Who talks like that? And seriously? How can two pennies be more than, like, a huge sack of gold from some rich guy?"

"But it was," Castiel says, a firm note to his voice that Dean doesn't understand. "You see, Dean, all of those rich men and women gave more money to the church because they had money to spare. It didn't inconvenience them to give; it wasn't a hardship for them in any way and it didn't mean anything. But that widow gave everything she had."

Dean is quiet for a long moment, his hand moving up and down over Castiel's spine in a light, pensive caress, and Castiel can almost hear the gears in his head turning.

"Okay, Cas," he says finally. "I think I see your point."

"Do you," Castiel deadpans, unconvinced.

"Yeah," Dean chuckles. "I'm a widow woman with two pennies."

Suddenly Castiel is in his face, blue eyes inches from his own, voice rough and breathing warm against his lips as he whispers fervent, urgent words and wills Dean to understand.

"No, Dean. Please do not make light of this. You are someone who finds loving others easy, but admitting it a very difficult and fearful thing. And yet you tell me anyway, just to make sure I know, and then worry it isn't enough when it is everything, _everything_ to me."

_Cas._ Dean looks up at him with wide eyes, that tight, desperate feeling in his chest he associates with his heart about to burst from feeling too many things and never giving voice to any of them.

_Please believe me when I say that if God appeared this moment and offered me anything I wanted in the universe, I would tell him to go back into hiding because there's nothing he can give me that will outweigh the value of what I already have._

"Jesus, Cas," Dean gasps at him, sliding arms up around his waist and pulling him down, as much as to alleviate that ache in his chest as to escape those ethereal blue eyes boring into him with a furious kind of devotion.

_Okay, okay,_ he thinks, all protests floundering. _I get it. I understand._

And then, because he has no words for the things he feels, the things he wants Cas to _know _he feels, he closes his eyes and prays.

* * *

**Author's Note:** This is the final chapter. I just couldn't leave poor Cas hanging out in Purgatory as long as I fear the show writers are going to. Oh, and the story of the widow's two mites is paraphrased from Luke 21: 1-4. I thought perhaps Castiel would prefer that version, since he seems to have met Luke at some point.


End file.
